


Secrets of the North

by iamthelordofwinterfell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, F/M, Game of Thrones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthelordofwinterfell/pseuds/iamthelordofwinterfell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon teaches Sansa how to fight... In return, Sansa teaches Jon a thing or two.</p><p>This is my first fic, so comments are welcome, and I hope you enjoy it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

In the training yard of Winterfell, Jon couldn’t help remembering all the times he had fought with Robb, first with wooden swords, then with blunted steel, the song of metal on metal. 

He recalled himself shouting “I am the lord of Winterfell!” only to be cut down by Robb, who told him he couldn’t be, because he was a bastard, and Robb would be the next King in the North.

Now Robb was dead, and Jon was both a Targaryen, the lord of Winterfell, King in the North, and, if the Lannisters had not lost the Iron Throne to his aunt, Daenerys, a dead man walking. 

The revelations that had come about since her victory still made his head spin… Rhaegar’s secret marriage to Lyanna… Eddard’s promise to protect him and raise him… He, the third dragon…

He had heard that Arya was in Braavos, with no intention to return. As for Bran and Rickon, their whereabouts were unknown, and yet his dreams whispered of all sorts of happenings; wargs, frozen blue eyes, the three eyed crow and children of the forest… He knew, without knowing how he knew, that these half-dreams held some mention of truth, that which he could not quite derive. 

A small voice brought him back to the present, where he stood, fingers numb around the handle of his sword, lips tinged blue as the snow fell.

"Jon?"

It was Sansa. She stood ankle-deep in the snow, looking fragile in a deep blue gown that brought out her eyes.

"My lady. You should be inside… It is cold…" He trailed off awkwardly, realising how he looked, standing there like a wooden puppet. He had planned to practise his strokes, but became lost in his reminiscing. 

"You’re the one who looks cold." She said, with a slight smile. "Come in, it’s getting late."

Jon followed her inside, knowing that she understood the thoughts that plagued and distracted him. He was only now beginning to understand what she had suffered at the hands of Joffrey, and after his death, Cersei. It set a slow anger burning deep inside him, next to a desire to protect her. Afterall, it had not been him who brought her home, but Daenerys.


	2. 1

In the later days, Jon noticed Sansa was quiet more oft than usual. Usually, she laughed and joked with him, requested lemon cakes, or fed the horses, and his heart warmed at her attention. 

He now saw her often in a chair, with a book, yet never turning the pages, sighing occasionally. Jon did not wish to pry, but one day, as he studied maps of the North in the solar he often shared with Sansa, due to the bright light it received in the afternoon, he couldn’t pretend not to see the tears that dripped onto the pages of the book she held, curled in a sitting chair.

"Are you well, my lady?" He ventured cautiously.

She nodded, leaning forward so that her auburn hair obscured her face. 

Jon hesitated only a moment before crossing the solar to carefully put his arm round her. The second he did, she crumpled against his chest. He felt the thin bones in her shoulders, fragile as a bird.

"There now," He murmured, worry gnawing at his chest. "What is it, my lady?"

"Oh Jon." She sighed into his chest. "I’m just so frightened…"

"Of what?" Jon replied, instinctively drawing her closer. "You’ve got nothing to fear here, I swear." He said the last two words a little forcefully, his anger at the Lannisters simmering and threatening to boil over once again.

"I just felt so helpless." Sansa whispered. "There was nothing I could do, no way of escape, I was useless. Arya… I always thought… Playing with swords. And yet Arya escaped."

She looked up at him now, her eyes big and blue, the depth of the ocean caught within them. 

"Could you do something for me, Jon?"

Jon could see the pulse thudding in the delicate skin of her neck. Her hair glowed slightly in the sunlight. He tried to shake free of the trance that held him, the woman he’d once thought of his sister. 

He wanted to tell her he’d do anything.

"Of course." He said.

"Teach me how to fight. I want to be able to defend myself. If they ever come again."

Jon breathed in sharply. This was not the sort of favour he had anticipated. 

"I would defend you…" He said slowly.

Sansa demurely shook her head. 

"No… I know that. I want to learn. Please, Jon." 

Just the way she said his name had him agreeing.


	3. 3

Jon stood facing Sansa in the training yard. She stood there looking at him steadily, in a pair of his breeches rolled up, and the smallest leather jerkin and ringmail he could find.

She held the blunted sword in her hand awkwardly, her posture all wrong, but her eyes held Jon's with a ferocity and determination that ached in his gut, and made him think of numerous things other than fighting her.

He sighed, and demonstrated the correct posture. Feet apart. Sword ready. She copied him. 

"Now," He said, stepping forward. "When I swing, bring your sword up to block me."

He stepped forward again, slowly swinging his sword in an uppercut from right to left. Sansa lifted her's with a speed he had not anticipated, and blocked his blow, hard, almost knocking him off balance.

He looked at her, surprised, and her knowing smile was pale pink against the snow white of the deserted training yard that surrounded them. He shuddered, and she slashed at him suddenly, mirroring his uppercut, forcing him backwards. 

Suddenly, Ghost darts across the yard, a flash of off-white against snow-white, and charges towards Sansa, his teeth bared.

How could Jon have forgotten? He twists, his body against Sansa's, protecting her. 

"Seven hells." He curses. "Ghost, no, to me!"

The direwolf stops, but still eyes Sansa. Jon feels the press of her breasts against his back. She doesn't move away. In a flash, he recalls Ygritte, the cave, the taste of her on his lips. He flushes, and leads the direwolf inside where he can contain him, any words of apology he might have said to Sansa dying in his throat.

***

They continue to practise over the following days. Sansa improves quickly - Jon is surprised to find that she taken to swords the same way she took to needlework, which Septa Mordane taught her a thousand years ago.

He remembers the sullen boy he was then. Robb's tawny hair and Tully eyes, the same as Sansa's. 

He was Eddard Stark's bastard. This girl, no, woman now, for she is six and twenty, was his sister.

"Show me your strokes." He snaps, jolting himself from his memories, his desires.

Sansa's eyes narrow, and she slashes at him fiercely. For a second, Jon is glad it is blunted steel, until as he returns her uppercut with a lower, and knocks her to the ground all the same.

He is kneeling beside her in a heartbeat.

"My lady, I'm so sorry." He says, barely breathing as she slowly sits up, snow in her auburn hair. 

"My name is Sansa." She says in a level voice, with a glowing smile meant just for him. He exhales slowly, and helps her to her feet.

"Sansa..." He says slowly, just trying out the word, her name, and there's that smile again.

"Jon." She says. "Fight me. Properly."

"I don't want to hurt you." He says, aghast at the thought of trying to knock her to the ground with intent.

Sansa's eyes narrow in response. 

"You won't." She retorts, before applying a sharp, playful slap with the flat of her blade to his ribs. 

Before long, Jon knocks her to the floor again. The rush he feels at his victory is instantly overwhelmed by the guilt he feels. 

She rolls her eyes at him, and ignores his offered hand, then sashays into the castle without a word.


	4. 4

Jon read the letter once. Again. A third time. His hands shook as he laid it gently to one side. He made an effort to steady them by gripping the ledge of the window, gazing without seeing into the morning sun. 

He looked at the raven that had delivered it. Dark wings, dark words.

The meaning of the letter, addressed to Jon Targaryen, from his aunt, Daenerys, was clear enough; Jon must marry. 

Jon sighed. Dany had the right of things, he knew. She knew a Queen belonged to her people, not to herself. She had gently suggested Jon marry Asha from the Iron islands, thus uniting them to the North. Then Jon would belong to both the Iron islands, and Asha.

Jon knew who he wanted to belong to, and the thought filled him with a rush of agony and desire so fierce it was almost pain. He thought of Sansa’s fierce look as she slashed at him. 

He considered the immediate question; should he tell Sansa of the letter?

As he considered this, Sansa came into the solar.

"Were you going to leave me waiting in the yard forever?" She demanded, before seeing the look on his face. She raised her eyebrows.

Jon sighed, a shaky exhalation.

"Daenerys requires that I marry… someone. And soon." He phrased it carefully, studying her face, which immediately softened then creased with worry.

"Who does she want you to marry?" Sansa said, her voice harsh, and blunt.

"Asha. Of the Iron islands." He said slowly, and saw an angry look flicker across her face. "I don’t have to. If I found someone I considered must suitable."

Sansa shook her head slowly. 

"You must do what the land requires, Jon. I’ll be in the training yard."

The words pierced him, and he gazed at her. Clearly, his feelings were not returned. His feelings for his former sister, he thought bitterly. Of course they weren’t. Of course. Alone in Winterfell, had the thought never occured to her? He was not a knight in one of the stories she had romanticised as a child, it was true… But he was the King in the North.

What good ever came of marrying for love anyway? It was foolish. Foolish and stupid.

That day, as he parried again with Sansa, his thoughts were distracted, and, for the first time, she put him on his knees, then suddenly kicked him over with the flat of her foot to his shoulder. A smirk crossed her features, as Jon spluttered with embarrassment and scrambled awkwardly to his feet.

He slashed at her, and made her pay for that victory. They were both pouring sweat by the end of the exercise, even though the snow continued to fall. Jon’s thoughts were scrambled, watching the way Sansa’s boyish clothes clung to her with the moisture. 

He imagined tearing it from her, the way her breasts would swing free to fill his hands. The wave of pleasure this thought brought was instantly tackled by guilt at what now strained at his breeches.


	5. 5

A knock at the door of his chambers awoke Jon that night. Dazed, he hurried to open it. There stood Sansa, dressed only in her shift, which became translucent in the low glow of the fire still burning low in the grate.

 

"I was thinking that you deserve something in return for all this training." She said slowly, her gaze steady on him, the unspoken challenge in her eyes that he saw in the training yard still there.

"You don't owe me anything." Jon said roughly, barely able to find his voice, or hide how much he wanted her,

"I know." She said, moving closer.

They looked at each other, not speaking, until Sansa took his hand gently, her eyes never leaving his, and led him to the bed set in the centre of the room. 

Losing control at her touch, Jon kissed her, hard, and felt her mouth respond to his. She tasted sweet, and the smell of her hair so close to him was intoxicating. He felt her tongue flicker against his, and pulled her closer. He felt her nipples grow hard against his chest, and unable to control himself, began to tug clumsily at the shift. 

Sansa smiled, and stood, then raised the shift smoothly over her head. Jon drank in the sight of her; her skin was like cream, her thin collarbones peaking through. He looked at her breasts; they were larger than he had first thought, restricted by her gown, and each was peaked with a nipple the colour of peach. The nipples were darkened slightly with her arousal. At the sight of the auburn curls between her thighs, he felt himself stiffen further. He saw her long legs step towards him, before she began to undress him. She ran her hand smoothly down his chest, and Jon forget everything except the feel of her small, doll-like hand on his skin. 

Moving lower she unlaced his breeches, which he had somehow fallen asleep in, tugging them down to his ankles. Jon lay back on the bed as she knelt between his legs. He stole a glance, and saw her lower her pink, rosebud mouth to the head of his cock, which throbbed for her attention. 

The feeling that washed over him as he felt the slickness of her saliva, and her tongue against the head was beyond belief, and he moaned involuntarily. She traced an absent pattern in the night-black curls that surrounded him, before gently squeezing his balls as she began to suck, moving her hand up and down on him. 

His thoughts were like white-light. There was nothing except this, no time to dizzily contemplate anything other than what Sansa was doing to him, something that had never been done to him, that should feel sordid but instead felt personal, intimate, and above all else, incredibly pleasurable. He could barely comprehend the fact that she desired him as he did her. 

This dazed thought pushed him towards his release with a cry, and Sansa pulled her mouth from him, resulting in his seed on her chest. Jon gazed at her, about to apologise, but she smiled at him.

"I've always wanted to see you like this." She whispered to him, looking at his body, the hair that ran over his chest, the cum caught on the head of his penis. Jon flushed at her words, the flush deepening as she touched the cum on her breasts with a finger, before sliding it slowly into her mouth. She closed her eyes briefly, then took the hankerchief he kept beside his bed and slowly wiped herself clean. Sansa, always neat, still Sansa, still the woman he knew. He saw her shiver as her fingers brushed at her nipples briefly.

He stood, and wrapped her in arms, their bodies pressed together. 

"You're beautiful, Sansa." He said to her as he ran his hands down her back, and further, to feel the rounded flesh. He squeezed and felt his cock stir again. 

Quickly, he lay her down on the bed and climbed above her.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" He said, although he was already lowering his mouth to kiss and bite gently at her neck. He felt her nod, and moved his mouth down to her breasts.

He kissed each nipple, before sucking one slowly into his mouth, He held it lightly between his teeth as he flicked his tongue against it, and heard Sansa moan. He quickly caught the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing it, then twisting it lightly, before he massaged her breast with his hand. It fit perfectly, as though made for him. 

He pulled back and looked at her, one nipple even harder and darker. Her breath came in small gasps.

"Please Jon." She whimpered.

"I aren't finished yet, my lovely girl." He said, smiling with new confidence at the way he could undo her. He lowered his head to her auburn curls between her legs, and pressed his face to them as he slowly spread her legs, running his hands up and down her inner thighs. 

Gazing at the delicate folds, he saw her clit throbbing slightly, and saw the auburn hair glistening wetly.

As he lightly touched her clit with a forefinger, she mewled slightly.

"Do you want me?" Jon asked, his voice low, as he pressed gently against it. 

"Yes, Jon, please, yes..." She moaned again as he slid his finger between her wet folds, then let out a low cry as he moved his finger inside her. Gods, she was tight. He lent down and kissed her there, sliding his tongue up gently. She tasted of the ocean, with a sweet, tangy edge that made him shiver.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he slowly pushed his cock inside her, and felt her pulsate around him. She wrapped her long legs around him, one heel against him to push him deeper.

He wrapped his arms around her once again, until they were pressed against one another, and his balls rubbed against her, as he whispered sweet nonsense and filthy suggestions into her ear, telling her how long he had wanted her, what he had imagined doing to her, how beautiful she was and how she felt. He listened to her little mews and cries and continued to rock slowly inside her, until she suddenly gripped his hips firmly. He raised her legs over his shoulders and pressed into her, hard and fast, until she screamed his name as she tensed with an orgasm, and he released forcefully inside her,

Jon gasped and cried out himself, his body shaking, gooseflesh erupting across his skin, drenched with sweat.

Shakily, he pulled out and lay beside her. She kissed the corner of his mouth tenderly.

He lay there, trembling beside her, before saying the words he knew were the ones she had wanted to hear since he had read the letter to her. 

"Sansa. I want you to marry me." 

She looked at him, her eyes dark and unfathomable.

"Jon." She paused and looked at him.

"I could never love anyone like I love you. I love you. I want to do this to you all the time, and be with you, and have children, and spend time together, always." He said firmly, knowing it was true. 

Her eyes were full of tears as she nodded her head, moving her hand down his body as she did.


End file.
